Deep Black - Andy McNab [65]
To my right, a small window had been patched up with perspex. I couldn’t help but grin when I looked through it. I could see a tower of some sort out there, with the usual picture of Saddam waving – except that his face had been replaced by a big yellow Smiley. I caught the eye of one of the guys standing guard and he smiled too.
‘Why am I here?’ Jerry was getting more and more agitated. ‘I’m an American.’
Nobody replied because everyone knew it. He’d said it enough times. Besides, they were here to enforce, not answer questions, and they wouldn’t hesitate to make him vomit again if he got boring.
47
‘Jeral, I know you are.’
The Texan drawl came from behind us, near the door. ‘And if you keep quiet, this won’t take long.’
I didn’t turn round.
‘I’m an American journalist. I have a right to know why we’re here.’ Jerry was doing too much talking and not enough listening.
Two men in uniform came and leaned their arses against the desk in front of us. Both were in their mid-thirties, and had identical, Brylcreemed short-back-and-sides with the kind of parting you can usually only get with a fretsaw. Their BDUs were so perfectly pressed they could have stepped straight out of a Chinese laundry. I looked down at their boots. They were broken in, but they weren’t scuffed and fucked like the MPs’.
These guys were remfs. You can tell one from twenty paces, in any army, in any country in the world. No scabby boots, no sweaty T-shirts. The only things that get worn out are their pencils and the arses of their trousers. Remfs are from command. Rear echelon motherfuckers. They wouldn’t have looked out of place in Costco with baskets in their hands.
They had a buff-coloured folder that they passed between them as if they were reading our medical notes. I couldn’t tell what unit they were from. Americans wear badges like the Russians wear medals. It’s hard to know where to start.
The Texan broke the silence. ‘We’re all busy people. Let’s move this along.’ He sounded like a bank manager.
Jerry still wasn’t quite with the programme. ‘Why have we been brought here?’
The bank manager was getting a little frustrated. ‘Jeral, please, don’t make this hard on yourself. Just listen to what we’re about to say, because it’s only coming your way once.’
He pointed to me. ‘You’ve been asking military contractors about Bosnians in Baghdad. Correct?’
What was the point of lying? ‘Yes.’
‘Why are these Bosnians here?’
I was racking my brain, trying to remember exactly what I’d said to Jacob. I’d leave the ayatollah part out of this conversation. ‘We don’t know. It just sounded like a good story. You know—’
Jerry couldn’t help himself. ‘We’re journalists and covered the Bosnian war and I heard about a—’
The bank manager didn’t bother glancing at him. ‘Jeral, was I talking to you?’
‘No.’
‘Therefore continue, Nick.’
Thank fuck for that. Jerry would have given them chapter and verse.
‘The way we saw it – Bosnians coming here, from one war-torn Muslim country to another. We covered that war, and thought, Why not see if we can get the next chapter in the story? What brings them here, that sort of thing.’
‘You know their names?’
‘Not a clue. That’s why we’re just sniffing about.’
As his mate jotted notes in the folder, he thought about what I’d said. ‘You telling me you decided to just turn up and see what they had to say?’ He tapped my passport on the palm of his hand. ‘Don’t mess me, now. Remember, you’re in my world.’
‘Well, OK, we thought maybe they might have something to do with the sex trade. The papers love that stuff. We heard there’s a few in town.’
He smiled at me. He’d got what he was after. ‘That accent of yours doesn’t sound much like home to me.’
‘I’m from the UK. Moved to the States a year or so ago. The date’s in my passport.’
He took a breath and adopted the kind of expression you’d use if you were about to refuse an overdraft. ‘Well, people, I’m going to level with you. My job is to be the clearing-house for you kinda guys. We just don’t like freelancers that maybe turn out to make us look bad. What we like